The Last Judgement

Dear old Byrnes had driven them to the airport, lent them money and even paid for their tickets, saying that he was certain that the Italian state would take care of it eventually. Even his frosty wife had recovered from the early-morning affront to make them sandwiches for the trip. As Argyll had tried to explain, she wasn’t so bad really. English ladies are occasionally like this: hearts of marshmallow, heavily protected by a covering of solid titanium. They can be quite kind, as long as no one notices and points it out. Then they get brusque and insist that they’re nothing of the sort. An odd national characteristic, really.

Bottando had stayed behind, nattering to Elizabeth Byrnes. These two had hit it off quite nicely, and as Flavia and Argyll dragged their weary steps to the car, they’d left Bottando in the kitchen drinking wine and watching his hostess potter around doing the cooking. Of course the General would stay for dinner and stay the night. No trouble at all.

Hmmph. This was approximately the thought of both Flavia and Argyll as they’d driven off. Somehow the division of labour seemed a touch unfair. They ran around like beheaded chickens, Bottando settled down for a comfortable night. His mentioning the privileges of rank as they’d left hadn’t helped either. Nor did his contribution — ringing Janet to tell him they were on their way — seem exactly like overworking himself. Argyll had protested about this, saying Janet’s track record for being helpful hadn’t exactly been exemplary, but Flavia had insisted. That was the point, she’d said; besides, this time she thought Janet would turn out to be useful.

But, as Bottando had said, this was Flavia’s case. She’d started it, she should finish. See it as a mark of trust, he’d said. Besides, she knew all the ins and outs; he didn’t. And of course, she was the one who wanted to show Fabriano a thing or two.

Charles de Gaulle was relatively empty, and they got off the plane fast, making their way along the mechanized walkways quickly to the exit. Then to passport control, and the line for holders of EC passports. Generally this is simple: frequently the immigration officials don’t even bother to examine passports. Especially in the evening, a gruff nod and a bored look at the cover is about as big a welcome as a traveller can expect.

But not in this case. Whether he was young and enthusiastic, or had just come on his shift or whatever, this one was insisting on doing his job properly. Each passport was opened, each face scrutinized, each person sent on his or her way with a courteous ‘Thank you sir, enjoy your stay.’

Whoever heard of a courteous immigration official at an airport? Everybody knew there was an international training-school somewhere which drilled them in basic offensiveness and advanced sneering.

‘Madame, m’sieur,’ he said in greeting as they handed over their documents, Flavia feeling ever more like a lamb being led to the slaughter.

The feeling was strengthened when he looked intently at the photographs, studied their faces with care, then referred to a book of computer printout on the desk.

‘Bugger,’ said Argyll under his breath.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said.

‘Would you mind coming with me, please?’ said the official.

‘Not at all,’ she replied sweetly. ‘But we are in an enormous rush. We have no time to waste at all.’

‘I’m so sorry. But it will only take a few seconds. I’m sure you understand. Routine checks.’

Like hell, she thought. But there was no chance of doing anything but march off dutifully as instructed. She’d noticed the four armed policemen earlier. Perhaps the guns weren’t loaded; she didn’t know, and had no intention of finding out.

She had the feeling that the little cubicle they were ushered into had been deliberately designed to be depressing. Dingy white walls, no windows, uncomfortable seats and a metal and plastic table all combined to create an atmosphere that reduced you to being an administrative problem, best solved by ejection.

There were two doors, the one through which they entered, and the other which opened shortly after they had come in and sat down in uncomfortable and worried silence. So this is what it feels like to be an illegal immigrant, Flavia thought.

‘Surprise, surprise,’ Argyll said as he saw the person who came in.

‘Jonathan. Good to see you again,’ said the man who, in recent days, had been tackled, hit with bottles, thumped with handbags and tripped up. Despite the words, he didn’t seem at all happy to see them. He had a large piece of sticking-plaster above his left eye. Flavia suppressed a slight snigger and decided not to mention their last meeting. No point in being provocative.

‘The feeling is not reciprocated,’ Argyll said.

‘I thought it might not be. No matter,’ he replied as he sat down. He then opened a bulky file of papers and studied some — more for effect than anything else, Flavia suspected — before looking up at them with a vaguely concerned air.